


steal my blood and steal my heart

by michaelsgang



Series: i’m ready, able to make my own good home [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tom lives but at the cost of being a vampire, alternating POV’s, i swear it’s better than it sounds, just some soft vamp and his human bestie (lover 👀), yes i did post on valentine’s day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22714021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelsgang/pseuds/michaelsgang
Summary: When he turns back to Blake, he’s smiling stupidly, a spotlight of silvery light over his smooth skin, blood smeared around his lips and cheeks.Will wants to treasure him.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: i’m ready, able to make my own good home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633582
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76





	steal my blood and steal my heart

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my first and fortunately not last fic in the 1917 verse bc i love them so much 🥺 
> 
> i made up the vampire rules in this fic, though most of them follow the norm. good luck reading lol
> 
> no beta, we die like men
> 
> title: bitch by allie x

Darkness blankets his vision as his consciousness powers back to life. He feels himself gasping as he jolts up, but the space in his chest is hollow. It’s eerily empty, and it scares him enough to bring his dried hands to his chest. His skin itches at the feel of the rough material. 

His mouth burns as he begins to notice the ache in his bones. How long had he been out for? Fog clouds his brain, making him squint at the mental images of his memories. Underneath him, he feels the blades of grass, cutting tiny marks into his hands. 

With a jarring jump in his chest, he notices the distinct absence of Scho. His eyes, adjusting well in the dark night, can barely find a trace of the other man, further stirring the fear in him. It’s late and the moon is already a quarter into his descent and he needs to get to Colonel Mackenzie before dawn. 

But where is Scho? He couldn’t imagine leaving the man behind, or worse, finding him—

Tom grabs his head, groaning as he tries to remember. Knocking out had _not_ been a part of the plan, especially with such a strict time frame. How could he have let himself fall asleep? 

_The German_ , his brain slowly supplies, as images of the burning plane, screaming, and flaming pain flood his frontal lobe. Another gasp. He struggles to shove aside the thick wool, feeling the crusted blood and caked mud on it and his hands. His torch blinks awake to show him his soft pale skin, completely unmarred through an obvious cut in the fabric. 

What on Earth?

Fear creeps back up on him, dancing along his spine. He distinctly remembers the sharp plunge as the knife tore into his flesh and muscle, how quickly his blood gathered and fell from the gash. He remembers the spots in his vision, and the warmth coming from Scho, as he felt his heart slowing. Tom remembers it all, now. Crystal clear. 

A branch cracks from behind him, and he jumps, chest heaving. There’s a flutter of movement, but a rough cloth to his mouth and nose sends him tumbling into another fit of unconsciousness.

He thinks of Scho. 

—

The next time he wakes, Tom can feel a small fire burning underneath his skin. Everything is too tight around him, and he can feel even the thinnest of fibers scratching into his skin. There’s a deep ache in his chest, and he can’t hold back the whine. He must be dying. 

The world around him bustles on, a result of war, everyone hurried and rushed, from point A to B. Tom can hear every bit of conversation as nurses rush around, overworked and exhausted. Wounded soldiers moan as nurses shush them with another whiff of chloroform to numb the pain. Tom can practically taste the death in the air. 

His sensitivity informs him that it’s morning finally, and it irritates him that he’s awake again. Couldn’t crossing no man’s land be enough to guarantee him some sleep?

“Do you want me to get the nurse?” His senses explode as the voice fills his ears, banging a storm against his ear drums. He flinches, but that only serves to rub his skin even more, exposing him and making him raw. He whines again, his nose wrinkling at the flood of smell- heady, musky, and familiar. He knows that scent, the mix of gunpowder and stale bread and cheap soap.

_Scho._

He opens his mouth to speak, but the pain of dragging his dried tongue hurts too much. His throat tickles. Scho shushes him; he’s quieter this time. 

“Just rest, Blake,” he sounds like he wants to add more, but holds himself back carefully. Tom would give anything to open his eyes and see him, to ground himself in the reality that Scho made it out alive. The thought of his brother makes his body tense and he wants to asks if Scho had kept his promise. 

He figures that if Scho’s alive, the odds of him continuing on the mission he was so against are quite slim. Tom wants to feel angry, wants to mourn those 1600 men and his brother. His head aches too much for that now, unfortunately. 

A hot hand lands on his shoulder, the calluses rubbing his exposed skin in a way that makes him squirm. Scho yanks his hand back. 

“You’re freezing, you know,” he mutters, tugging another rough blanket against his body, furthering triggering his discomfort. What’s bloody wrong with him? Getting stabbed make him sensitive to everything? 

“Here, drink.” A hand quickly tucks underneath his head and lifts, as cool metal grazes his bottom lip. The thought of water makes his head swim, and he eagerly welcomes the it. As fast as it goes down, it forces itself back up. His stomach twists painfully as he vomits back up the water, only successful in fixing his dry mouth. He still thirsts. 

Scho curses, his grip firm around the back of his neck, but the canister disappears. Tom coughs some more, miserable as his body whines for something to soothe him. He must be dying of something. What disease reached his open wound while he was unconscious?

“Christ- I’m getting a nurse.” Tom mourns the loss of contact sharply, as Scho’s scent leaves with him. Why hadn’t he died before this?

—

(Will tries to ignore the fear crawling in his esophagus, sharp like acid. Blake is alive, even as he struggles in and out of consciousness for the few days that he’s arrived back to camp. It was a miracle that Blake had even made it back, he didn’t care for the logistics of it, just glad to have his mate back. 

It doesn’t mean it makes watching it hurt any less. Blake’s become a sensitive frozen shell since he’s arrived, and it’s painful to watch. Scho would be the first to volunteer to cradle him again, to ease his pain like he did when he thought he was dying. 

He shakes his head, willing himself to rid of those memories. Blake’s alive, no matter how sick, he’s alive. It’s all he could ask for. 

On the fifth day, they move Blake to a corner as secluded as they could manage in the makeshift infirmary, in an old French schoolhouse. Will had moved straight here when he heard that Blake had been found and brought back to camp before shipping him here. 

Will stayed under pretense of his concussion and a cacophony of wounds that came from traveling through harshness and not getting a wink of sleep in twenty four hours. 

That’s how he’s able to keep an eye on Blake and his progress, and how he notices a nurse looming over him after lights out. Anyone would be out of their mind to not be catching some rest, but Will finds it hard to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees fire and blood. 

So he watches through squinted eyes and listens with trained ears as the nurse whispers to a panting Blake. He can make out bits and pieces. 

“Drink, you need it.” There’s a sharp creak from the cot as Blake presumably dodges an offering of drink. It’s the worst thing that Will has had the pleasure of watching; they’ve been forcing food down his throat, but it all comes rushing back up, coated in phlegm and pitch black blood. Will’s stomach twists. 

“It’ll help you,” the woman pauses, then she mutters something. Will wishes he could listen to her completely. Blake’s his best friend, no question nor doubt about it, and he wants to make sure he’s safe. He doesn’t like the way the nurse sounds as she makes him drink. 

There’s a long silence, before a sharp intake of breath breaks it. His heart stops. There are no tell tale sounds of Blake’s gag or his wet coughing as his vomit spews everywhere. 

“That’s it, that's all you needed.” Will tilts his head, trying to get a better angle of the scene only a few cots away from him. Her uniform is too dark in the room to decipher her rank, but he doesn’t recognize that accent. Finally, he can see with the aid of the moon shining through the tinted windows, the woman holding a thermos of some kind, tilting it higher and higher into Tom’s mouth. Dark liquid spills down the sides of his mouth, and his fingers clench around the metal bottle. 

That _accent_ – He doesn’t recognize the woman, she’s too old to be any of the nurses, and her uniform sleeve holds an emblem foreign to him. Will jumps up, his heart pounding. Why else would a stranger choose past the checking hours to feed Tom something? 

She doesn’t notice him stalking toward her, fists clenching around a missing rifle. He spares a moment to notice how Blake sits up rigidly, more color in his face than he’s seen in days as the moonlight lands on him. The liquid reminds him of blood. 

“What are you doing?” He grabs her bicep, the one holding the empty thermos, smelling horribly of copper. Fear embraces his shoulders when the pair of golden eyes finds his in the darkness. She sneers after him. 

“Let go of me,” she yanks once and Will stumbles under her strength. Distantly, he feels impressed. He stares at her. 

“What did you give him?” He demands, noticing now how much more alert Blake is, blinking carefully as he stares at his hands.

She chuckles, a sinister sounding thing that sprouts goosebumps all along his arms. He stands his ground. 

“Nothing that could harm him, Lance Corporal. We all look after our own.” Swiftly, she closes the thermos, despite Blake’s protests, and sends another smile toward Will. He shivers. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Make sure you apply this ointment once every five hours.” And she moves away from Will without another word. He wants to speak, wants to call her back and demand more answers. He feels frozen until she vanishes around a corner. 

When he turns back to Blake, he’s smiling stupidly, a spotlight of silvery light over his smooth skin, blood smeared around his lips and cheeks. 

Will wants to treasure him.)

—

Behind Tom’s eyelids the next morning swims a world of red. It reminds him of sinking to the bottom of the lake with Joe when they were kids, and he would slip his eyes shut, as the sun filtered through the water and onto his face. 

He’s glad to know Joe’s alive, and proud of Scho for keeping on his promise.

His sensitivity drops significantly, and he can open his eyes long enough to get a good look at Scho after nearly a week without seeing him. There are faint traces of purple bags under his eyes, and his dirty blonde hair is longer, shifting toward his left. His eyes trace down the toward his bandaged hand, clean looking. 

Peace sort of fills him, knowing Scho is safe here, and not somewhere in the trenches getting ordered around without Tom supporting him. 

“Morning,” he mutters, fiddling with a large tube, nondescript except for a faded logo in the center. 

“Mornin’ yourself, Scho. What’ve you got there?” His voice cracks with faint traces of dryness, but he puts off to imagination. He feels full, bloated with warmth in his stomach as his skin buzzes. Something around him smells mouth watering. 

“You’re supposed to apply this every five hours.” He answers, handing him the tube. Tom makes a face; he can already smell the crushed plants and animal fats mixed together, forced into an ointment. 

Tom hands it back. “You mind? I doubt the infirmary has a spare mirror lying around.” He grins, yet it widens when Scho releases a surprised chuckle, a smile tugging at his lips. Something lovely stirs in his chest. 

The older man nods, opening the tube methodically and pouring a tiny dollop on the tip of his finger. His slender hands are clean. Tom lifts his chin up, letting his eyes flutter shut. His heart pounds as he thinks about Scho pressing his fingers against his skin. 

There’s a moment of hesitation, he can feel, before the cool ointment meets the space underneath his eye. He shivers. They’re quiet, a tense sort of silence that feels too fragile that he doesn’t even want to breathe. Tom fights the urge to open his eyes, to note the limited space between the two of them as Scho so gently applies more of the ointment. 

“It smells like shit,” Scho comments, startling him from his thoughts. His eyes fly open and he struggles not to jump back at how much closer Scho is than he originally realized. The man is just slotted in between his splayed legs, hunched over Tom to make up for the difference in their heights, with his face set in concentration. Not for the first time, Tom wants to kiss him. 

He recognizes that what he feels for Scho is quite out of the ordinary, dangerous if others knew. Despite the sad reality, Tom can’t help it. He couldn’t stop loving the man even if he had tried. 

(And trust him, he _has_.)

“I can’t really tell,” he responds, his voice sounding strangled even to himself. Across from him, Scho blinks slowly, his eyes boring into his as his finger swipes broad strokes across his cheeks. His free hand holds his jaw steady.

They lapse into silence again, but the air is different. Tom can breathe, even as his heart stutters as he watches Scho work. It’s peaceful. 

—

“I reckon you’re a vampire or something,” Scho mutters, his words sounding like he wants to take them back. Tom lifts his head from playing with the blades of grass in front of him. The sun’s nearly slipping past the horizon, painting Scho in gentle orange. Being in the sun doesn’t hurt but the light is too bright and harsh against his eyes.

Tom has to look away, but not because of the sun.

“I didn’t want to lie, but there’s no easy way to say that I’ve been drinking blood.” It’s the third day since the nurse cornered him and forced him to drink from that thermos. Tom had known the dark syrupy liquid couldn’t have been anything natural. 

Admitting it to himself had been a different story.

It’s an odd fate, he recognizes, but there are in fact worse things in life. You could, for example, be in love with another man who happens to be your best friend, and most certainly not inclined to sleep with you. 

There are always worst things. 

Scho’s knee digs into his thigh. “I think,” he forces himself to pause. He looks like something’s stuck in his throat. 

“You think?” Tom smiles up at him, even as the older man rolls his eyes. His shoulders relax almost instantly. The tension is gone. 

“Get off,” there's a hint of a smile. “It doesn’t bother me, you’re still my friend.” The words unknowingly break the tight tension rope in Tom’s chest. Torn ribbons and thread fall away in the empty crevice inside of him. He sags under the weight of relief. Nothing else mattered if Scho didn’t trust him. 

“I’m glad. I’d never want to hurt you Will,” he admits. He’s not ashamed of the truth, but some things should be kept away from others’ ears. Fortunately, Scho just nods. When he looks over at him, the older man is twisting a long blade of grass around his finger. Tom’s mouth waters at the sight of his fingertip swelling red. 

He doesn’t even need to hold himself back. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d never hurt Scho. 

“I’m leaving soon for my leave,” and by God, Tom would throw a riot if Scho didn’t get his chance of rest. Though he’s been doing just that here at the med camp, it’s not the same as living away from the war, all aspects of it, and to sleep. Tom sleeps only for a few hours, but he never needs more. Perks, he supposes. 

“And leave me all alone?” He aims for a joke, but misses by a yard or so. Scho looks at him directly. His blue eyes look nearly clear. 

“You’d follow me whether I liked it or not.” He responds. In the silence that follows, Tom thinks about the long stretch of life ahead of him. The old nurse had whispered stories to him of _their_ kind, of the lives he’ll live until a wooden stake is driven through his heart. 

He’d grow through centuries, a near constant in an ever changing world. He’d outlive all of his friends and family, his appearance never changing, his body still tied to the Earth. He could spend the rest of his life wandering the world for true meaning, and still have time left to spare. 

Scho would eventually die and walk somewhere without him. That reality scares him the most. 

“I’ve got a bloody long time left, of course I’d follow you.” 

—

(There isn’t a shortage of questions that Will has. Most of them are too personal to ask, no matter how close the two of them are. Some are sort of stupid, and others are reasonable. 

He chooses to watch instead. 

Blake doesn’t like to ask, but he prefers him applying his ointment, the one that protects his skin against the sun. He keeps a cloth in his pocket to wipe away traces of blood after his meal, wiping even when his face is as clean as it can be. Blake invades his personal space more, a hand near constantly touching Will in some way; his favorite being when he can wrap his palm around Will’s bare wrist, feeling his pulse. 

During their stay at an old flat complex in a quiet French town, Blake talks more as the sun goes down, like he needs to tell Will everything on his mind before Will inevitably falls asleep. On more than one occasion, he found Blake sleeping on his bed, his feet planted against the headboard, while his head hung over the edge, or near it. 

Instead of biting his nails, Blake nibbles along the sides of his fingers, until he eventually cuts into the flesh, exposing pink-nearly-white muscle underneath. There’s never any blood, only black goo and it makes him squirm every time.

Will wants to write a book on Blake’s habits, now that he’s a—

It’s odd to think about it, but Will finds himself mentally censoring himself, as if Tom could read his mind and tell that he’s calling him a vampire. 

As well as finding the less than friendly thoughts about his friend. That would be terrifying.)

—

“I’m going to live with my sister before I can find a place of my own.” Scho admits, oddly shy when sharing something simple as that. Tom blinks and bites his tongue. Whatever he wants to say next, he must think carefully. 

“I want to visit my Mum, maybe tell her what’s going on,” the thought scares him. He fiddles with his passport. The nurse had dropped by on their last days in the hospital, and with her she brought formal letters of leave. His eyes caught the words medical discharge before Scho had taken them and stuffed them in his breast pocket. 

Standing in the corner of a long stretch of hallway is as private as they’re going to get here. Tom wonders if he could close the space between them and steal a kiss. 

Something cracks a bit of Scho’s undetectable expression. He doesn’t look away. 

“How long would that be?” Tom hears, knowing full well that the older man is watching him. He doesn’t understand why the tension is seeping in, why Scho seems so defensive. He should be glad, finally escaping the madness of Tom’s life now. 

“I haven’t decided yet. It depends on how she takes the news. I might have to keep the car running, honestly.” He laughs, even if the thought stings. Scho doesn’t laugh, making it impossibly awkward now. Christ, what the hell is Tom supposed to do?

The man turns his head to the side, staring down at the peeling paint along the wall before he speaks. 

“I can come with you,” Scho says quietly. He has to lift his head to finally look at him to make him repeat. The man looks tired, of course, but he notices under the purple bags, a brush stroke of red runs from cheekbone to cheekbone. Tom clenches his fists at his side to fight the desire to hold him. 

“I’d figure you wanted someone who understands to come with you. Maybe explain it to your Mum from another perspective.” He shrugs as though it isn’t a big deal and that Tom is the weird one for analyzing it. Scho _looks_ nervous, from his tight shoulders to his twinkling thumbs. 

Tom wants to ease him. 

“You’d want to come with me to face the true Hell that is mother once she finds out I’m a _vampire_?” Why would anyone want to do that? Tom can’t even imagine being in Scho’s shoes, watching the mess of Tom and his mum arguing.

Scho is losing it for sure. 

The man straightens a tad, his face nothing but serious. “I’ll always have your back, Tom.” His words send lightning bolts down his spine, shaking him to his core. Scho’s gaze is unwavering. There’s a lot of things Tom wants to do, wants to say, but they involve kissing the man in some form, and he knows Scho would most certainly object to that. Instead, his head ducks, but it doesn’t conceal his smile, only just barely holding back the affections he wants to drop on Scho.

“And the same to you, Will,” he says. “Till _you_ stop breathing.” 

Scho shakes his head, when he finally looks up, a smile tugging at his lips. His shoulders have sagged, like he can’t support the weight of relief anymore. Tom ought to be locked up for how much he watches Scho’s body language. 

“I’m not fooling around, I’ll go with you. And if you’d like, my sister has room for the two of us.” He takes a step closer, simultaneously speeding up and slowing down Tom’s nonexistent heart rate. The nerve of this man.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.” He says, despite how much his heart and brain are changing _yes, yes, yes_. He wants to spend the rest of eternity by Scho’s side. He might be stuck on earth for a long time, but he’d never grow bored of William Schofield. 

“No, no, you wouldn’t. My sister and I, we’re very close. My friend is her friend.” Scho worries his bottom lip, broadcasting his retuned nerves for all to see. It’s a marvelous sight when the man tries to keep his feelings bottled up _and_ invisible. Tom treasures every occasion that he loosens or opens it. 

“And I must be your best mate, huh?” He laughs again, even with a genuine undertone. There’s no one in his life like Scho. 

“I couldn’t think of someone else deserving of that title,” Scho’s serious, is the thing. He rarely shares his inner thoughts, the genuine feeling behind his words. It’s uncharacteristic of him, but Tom would never say no to reading more of Scho’s pages; he is Tom’s favorite novel. 

—

(Will rests easily that night. The future laid out in front of him, plain and true. He’ll join Tom all the way to his childhood home, see the garden his mum cares for, and the bedroom with dusted memories. 

It’s selfish, he recognizes, but the war allows for certain things to be ignored. The sky is blue, water is wet, Will wants to walk in Tom’s shadow for as long as he’ll have him. The younger man had taken a knife and carved a hole in him, one that could never be filled with someone else’s smile, or laughter, or an entire fucking being. 

Will feels it deep within him, past his muscles and ribs, a shift of some sort. It burns when Tom is too far, reminding him of his morality. The thought of Tom and him parting ways, permanently with occasional friendly visits made him crush under the pain.

How could Tom throw him away so easily? Could he not feel the tie linking them together? 

“Wake up, prick, you’re drooling all over me,” except, Tom’s hands are gentle shaking him awake. The world comes flooding in, and Will struggles not to ache at the lost of contact between them. 

He needs to get a grip on himself. 

“Don’t let me fall asleep, then.” He grumbles back, annoyed no matter how he loves Tom. The ride had been long and bumpy, but his body was desperate enough for sleep. Tom conversed with the old woman on his right, ever the magpie.   
  


Will bites back a smile.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! 
> 
> i’m working on the second installment which is gonna be stupidly romantic, we’re popping off on that one. i might merge the two fics together, but for now i’m keeping them separate. 
> 
> feel free to leave a kudos or a comment! tysm :)


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